


Illuminated

by orphan_account



Category: Gangsta. (Manga)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prostitution, Sexual Assault, Underage Prostitution, pre-benriya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:24:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4630329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worick hates Nicolas, and yet, he would do anything to keep him alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Illuminated

**Author's Note:**

> Please take notice of the tags and warnings!!! 
> 
> This is more of a gen fic, but you can interpret it with shipper goggles on.

There isn’t much that Worick remembers of that night. 

One second he's smoking a cigarette, the next his father punches him to ground, kicks him a few times, then grabs the cigarette, poised to shove it straight into his eye. Wallace stares at the glow of the embers, illuminated by the toxic fire that causes the smoke that he breathes into his lungs. Cigarettes are his getaway, but right now, they are his downfall. 

He looks away. He has to. Maybe, if he doesn't look his father in the eye, he can pretend it was a random accident, done by a random person, and not the man who should love him unconditionally. 

And then Nicolas is standing there, sword in hand, looking as passive as usual. He doesn't seem to be shocked, or worried, just content to watch as Wallace gets his eye burnt out. 

But then there's a quiver in Nicolas' fingers that reverberates throughout his entire body until suddenly, Nicolas' hand is on the hilt of his katana, ready to unsheath and launch at his enemy. 

Ready to kill. 

_No. No Nic... No._

But the sound falls on deaf eyes. 

Wallace doesn't see it happen - he can't see it happen - as his eye gets burnt and ruined, and his father dies a brutal and painful death. He can't hear it either, as his screams drown out the sound of anything else. His head pounds and aches, and he's left only to clutch at his face in horror, gasping and shaking and sobbing. He wants to puke, the pain is so bad. 

As the monster stands up and looks over his shoulder, with blood stained cheeks and ravenous eyes that glare through Wallace's soul, there is no denying anything. There is no coming back from that. 

No remorse, and no forgiveness.

\---

Worick comes home one day to find _that_ Nicolas; blood stained cheeks, wide eyes, and a clear thirst to kill. He’s sitting crossed legged on the floor, a dirty and disgusting carpet that they don’t know how to clean, waiting for Worick to step through the front door and come back home.

Only sitting, waiting, and not anything else.

“Are you going to kill me too?” Worick asks, his emotions on edge after a long day, too angry to sign it out. “Go on. Do it. I dare you.”

He doesn’t care about his life. Death would be easy, especially if it was going to be by Nicolas’ hands.

But Nicolas shakes his head, hair falling over his eyes. “No…” he says, with a hint of sadness. “Don’t want to.”

As Worick steps into the threshold further, he notices how blood is seeping into Nicolas’ clothes, and into the carpet beneath him.

“Shit Nic,” Worick swears, running up to him. “Where did you get hurt?”

Nicolas lifts his blood stained shirt to reveal a large, deep gash that runs all the way across his stomach. It isn’t bandaged, and blood oozes from the site, red and dark and thick. 

Worick hasn’t seen so much blood since _that_ day.

“We gotta go to the Doc, Nic,” Worick says, kneeling down to Nicolas’ level. He slings Nicolas’ arm over his shoulder and steadies himself. Despite being tiny, Nicolas weighs a lot of muscle.

“No…” Nicolas protests, clearly content to sit and wait and die. 

“Sorry Nic, but I’m not going to watch you bleed out on the floor.”

As he heaves Nicolas upright, he can see the other boy clench his teeth, a low groan following. Even twilights feel pain, sometimes.

\---

"This one is going to cost you," Theo mutters, lighting up his own cigarette. They’re smoking outside his mother’s medical centre, waiting for Nicolas to come out of surgery.

There was a lot of panic when Worick brought Nicolas to the centre hours earlier. The doctor, Theo's mother, the same one that treated his eye, said that the odds were not good, but Worick knows that Nicolas will survive.

He always does.

"Just how much?" Worick asks, puffing smoke. Surely it can't be any more than the usual fee they pay when Nicolas gets busted up. 

"Almost double the regular amount." Theo drawls. "As soon as surgery is involved, the value increases by a lot."

"Fuck," Worick swears, the smoke in his lungs sinking into his stomach, making him feel ill.

If Nicolas’ medical bills were around normal range, they would be able to afford it. They wouldn’t be eating pretty for a few weeks, but it was doable. They didn’t have the money for anything more than that.

“I hate twilights,” Worick mumbles, ditching his cigarette to the ground and stomping its light out. He’s angry that he doesn’t have money, not like used to.

“Why do you keep that deaf one around then?”

It was a good question. Why _did_ he keep Nicolas around, when all he caused was trouble? A monthly bill for Celebrer, rude stares from people on the streets, a lifetime ban from establishments for simply associating with a twilight, and, of course, massive medical bills every time he gets injured.

Nicolas was technically his property. He could cut him loose, send him away, ditch him to the side of the road; he could do anything to Nicolas. Worick could even kill him, if he wanted to. He could deal out the same punishment that Nicolas gave his family, and slice him up with his own katana.

But Worick would never have the guts to do that. He would only see the bright and innocent eyes of a younger Nicolas staring back at him, from a time when Worick didn’t know what he was truly capable of. Nicolas would urge him to do it, because nobody wanted Nicolas to die more than Nicolas himself. 

And if anything, Nicolas is his friend. Amongst the cold nights, the hungry stomachs, and the evil deeds they commit in order to survive, they have a kinship, something that Worick can’t ever kill. Even when the feeling of fingers digging into his eye socket, scraping out what was left of a half-burnt eye, are haunting Worick in his nightmares, he still wouldn't kill Nicolas.

Only Nicolas knows what he’s really been through. Only Nicolas will stick by him forever. Only Nicolas will believe him, and trust him, and care for him. Only Nicolas. Only ever _just_ him.

What kind of person would Worick be if he killed his one and only friend?

_He’s all I’ve got left._

Worick hates Nicolas, and yet, he would do anything to keep him alive. 

\---

Big Mama hasn't allowed Worick to take male customers yet. 

He asked because another, much older, gigolo said that you get more money out of them. At the sound of that, Worick was instantly intrigued. With more money, they might be able to buy a bed, warm and comfy, like the one he had back home. 

"Not until you're 18, boy," Big Mama says to him. "Even I have standards."

Worick didn't understand why he wasn't allowed. Surely, sucking a dick was the same as sucking a pussy. Suck, lick, suck, lick and repeat. Easy. 

Worick didn't understand, and he still doesn't, even as a man, someone he's picked up off the side of the road, probes him and forces him open. There's pain, so much pain, and it doesn’t stop for one second. Worick tries his best to just sit back and take it, but eventually tears slip from his cheeks, causing sobs, ripping from his chest. 

Being a gigolo had never bothered Worick before. It's degrading and disgusting, being used for the pleasure of another person, at the expense of your own comfort and safety. But for some reason, it was more like a game to Worick; a performance. Like a quick shift at any other work place, you grit your teeth and bare the pain until you're done, left to walk away with your pockets heavier. 

But this was different. Worick couldn't keep up the performance, and as soon as the man leaves, he proceeds to barf on the side of the road. 

His fingernails pick up dirt from the ground as he scrapes up his money, enough for Nicolas' surgery, and a tiny bit more. He stays on the floor for a while, shirt half undone, and pants down to his knees.

There is something extra degrading about this, and it had nothing to do with the pain.

_\---_

"Here's the money you needed," Worick says, handing it over the cash to the doctor. 

"This is fifty too much," she says, trying to hand the extra back to Worick. He refuses. 

"I need you to check me out." This is so humiliating, so awkward, Worick has to grit his teeth and look away. "Down there."

The woman nods knowingly, as if it's natural, as if it happens every day. This is the status quo in this city - a city so sheltered and dark and sinful - and that’s never going to change. The powerful reign over and control the weak, forcing them to scrounge the floor for basic human needs, and resort to prostitution to get a roof over their head. 

And the twilights, well, they’re not even human in comparison.

This isn't okay, Worick thinks. It _shouldn’t_ be okay.

\---

"You... all right?" Nicolas asks him that night, as Worick curls into bed with him, movements still stiff and painful. The Doctor said it should heal within a week, but until then, Worick had to soldier on.

"I'm fine Nico, don't you worry," Worick says in false cheer. "Everything will be fine."

The only time Worick ever gets to sleep in a bed is when Nicolas is injured, so he savours every second, hoping that one day he'll earn enough to buy his own. 

"Wall- ace... What did you... do?" Nicolas croaks, his eyes cloaked in varying shades of worry. Clearly, Worick can only pretend so far. Either his skills have dropped, or Nicolas can see straight through him.

Somewhere, somehow, Nicolas' hand finds Worick's own under the sheets. They're holding hands, their first childish act in a very long time. 

"My name's not Wallace anymore," Worick says, fingers curling into Nicolas' palm, leaving tiny crescent indents that Nicolas doesn't even flinch at. "I'm Worick now. Just Worick."

He couldn't be Wallace anymore, even if he tried.

\---

Nicolas doesn't ever call him Wallace again, and it feels like Worick's transition from spoilt rich boy to depressing poor gigolo is complete. He longs for all the privileges he once had, but at the same time, it makes his job easier knowing with finality that he's never going back. His name is Worick now, and he's happier for it.

One day Nicolas comes home with a huge wad of cash. Worick is baffled, at first, because Nicolas never takes home this much money.

"Are we going to get in trouble for this?" Worick asks, mostly concerned that Nicolas has stolen the money, and somebody was going to come after them for payback. Nicolas shakes his head, and Worick frowns. “Then where did you get it?” 

Nicolas lays his hand flat vertically, running his index finger across the top. It's the sign that Worick sees in his nightmares, the sign that he never should have taught Nicolas.

_Kill._

“Why Nic?” Worick says, a little panicked. Now they’re going to have cops on their doorstep, sniffing around them. It's a messy trouble that they really don’t need right now. 

And… how is Worick supposed to trust Nicolas? He knows Nicolas is a freelance mercenary, sure, but nothing drastic enough to kill anyone for. He's not a high enough rank to potentially kill another twilight, so he must have killed someone normal. Someone like Worick.

“Why... did you do it?”

“ _For you,_ ” Nicolas signs. “ _So now you can quit your job._ ”

“But Nic, I don’t want to quit my job.”

“They hurt… you…” Nicolas croaks. He looks to be on the brink of tears, distressed to be talking about this. “ _He…_ hurt you... They all hurt you…”

And then Worick understands. Nicolas doesn’t kill because he wants to, a fun game like Worick plays when he's being a gigolo. He does it because of Worick. To protect him from his father, and now, to protect him from himself.

“Nic,” Worick sighs. He takes Nicolas’ hands into his own, warming the frostbitten skin. “You don’t need to do that for me. I’m fine.”

Nicolas nods, but Worick is unconvinced. He doesn't want to leave anything unsaid this time. It's not worth the risk, or the fallout.

"Promise me you're not going to kill anymore people." Worick says, signing the words as he goes. 

“ _Is this an order?_ ” Nicolas signs back.

“No, I’m not going to give you orders. You’re not my dog.” And Worick hates the idea of treating him like that.

“ _Yes I am._ ”

Nicolas is damn stubborn, and normally Worick would try and argue, but he's tired of holding animosity and anger towards Nicolas. He's tired of fighting against his friend. He gives in to Nicolas this time, but he has his own standards, and he'd never treat Nicolas as anything but human.

“Fine,” Worick mutters, rolling his eyes. “I order you not to kill anyone - _unless_ they’re threatening your life. Got it?”

Nicolas nods, tentative, as if he’s absorbing a new way of living, and a new way of thinking. Nobody has ever given him boundaries, just like nobody had given him compassion before Wallace came along. To Nicolas, his sole purpose in life was only to kill, for the sake of his master. 

They had become friends under the mutual understanding of what it was like to be small and insignificant and abused, but they had never really bothered to understand each other beyond that. And Worick thinks that maybe, they might be able to change that.

"C'mon," Worick says, with a smile that he knows will brighten the situation. Only this time, it's genuine. "Let's get this blood of you." 

Worick pushes Nicolas into the shower, and it feels like he's washing away their dirty past, with small steps, one at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me @nicoworick on tumblr!!


End file.
